


in His name

by M0stlyVoid



Series: Kinktober 2020 [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Churches & Cathedrals, Demon Summoning, Demonic Possession, Exorcisms, Oral Sex, Other: See Story Notes, Prostitution, Religion Kink, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rituals, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26866297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/pseuds/M0stlyVoid
Summary: Something Dark is gathering along theCamino di Francesco,and Draco Malfoy is the only one qualified to deal with it. He insists on Potter coming along. For protection, of course, no other motive—why do you ask?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinktober 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948741
Comments: 47
Kudos: 190





	in His name

**Author's Note:**

> the october 6 prompt for kinktober 2020 is— _priest AU/sacrilegious kink_.
> 
>   
> **please note** —this fic heavily features holy sites being debased by a practitioner of Dark magic. draco studies the magic behind Catholicism, but he himself is not religious, and has both internal and external monologues about various hypocrisies he perceives in the papacy and the Catholic church. if you find this sort of thing offensive or upsetting, this fic is not for you.

_Lord, give us grace to look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen_

Draco has to admit that, despite all the humbling and awe-inspiring secrets he’s discovered during his near-decade buried in the Department of Mysteries, plumbing the depths and heights of magic, he still retains a fair amount of his childhood hubris. A small amount of ego can be healthy in a man, to be sure, but Draco sometimes wonders if he’s holding onto a measure of self-aggrandizement that’s no longer justified.

But then, something like _this_ happens—the Italian Ministry sends a desperate request for him and him alone, for _his_ expertise and none other.

Draco reads the file quietly, aware of Jones’ heavy gaze on his bowed neck. His supervisor is a man of laconic gazes and few words, and to have attention so fixated on oneself is a bit unnerving, but Draco is nothing if not controlled, and he gives no outward sign of his discomfort.

When he feels comfortable with the details, he shuts the file and looks up, meeting Jones’ eyes and hoping none of his trepidation shows.

There’s a demon-summoner raising literal Hell wandering the Italian countryside, and their _Misteros_ have reached the outer limits of their abilities to put him down. He’s a defector from a secretive monastery, who left before he could be tossed out; an apostate of the most dangerous kind, with enough knowledge of the ritual secrets to bring the country to its knees if he so desires—and he’s threatening it.

And Draco is the only living man who’s successfully raised and summoned a demon. Italy wants Draco Malfoy, and they’re willing to pay any price to have him.

“Can you do it?” Jones asks, sitting back in his chair. “You know what you’ll have to do—what you’ll need.”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” Draco replies, lifting an eyebrow.

_O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be understood as to understand._

Draco shouldn’t have been surprised that all it took to guarantee Potter’s presence on his trip was a simple memo to the DMLE—he suspects a not-insignificant amount of money has changed hands behind the scenes, and not even Minister Shacklebolt is immune to the siren song of cash in hand.

He’s happy he didn’t have to push harder; at some point he would have run out of plausible reasons why it had to be Potter. Jones is happier; less paperwork for him if the request doesn’t need to be codified. It must have been a vast sum, indeed, to secure this level of compliance.

Potter sits silently in the briefing room, staring at the maps and charts and runic notes like he’s got any notion of the sheer scope of what’s happening.

Draco knows he doesn’t. It took him _years_ to truly appreciate the immensity of the mysteries buried beneath the marble floors of the Sistine Chapel, and he knows he’s only scraped the surface—Vatican City jealously guards its secrets, even in the face of annihilation. Draco sometimes wonders what it would take to loosen the grip they have on the skeletons in their closet.

Later, when he and Harry are hunched over his desk, reviewing the hastily-assembled history of this man, Harry asks suddenly, “Why do you need me to come along? Why do you need _anyone_? Robards says this is your _thing,_ demons and the church and all—haven’t you done this before?” And when Draco looks surprised, he smiles a bit. “I don’t think it’s common knowledge, but I _am_ privy to a bit more than the standard gossip, you know. I didn’t know it was _you_ that did it, but we knew it had been done. So?”

Tracing the path between Gubbio and Trevi, Draco thinks. “Yes,” he says slowly; he needs to share enough to put Potter at ease, but not enough to raise further questions. “I have successfully raised and repelled a demon. However, that was...an earthly demon. Petty. Small. Born of the venality of man. _Weak_. What this man is threatening to do, the path he’s set himself on—this is a demon of the Old World, a demon of the Faith. They are stronger and more intelligent by magnitudes, and have not been seen in millenia. Attempting the rituals alone is the height of recklessness.”

Potter nods, a thoughtful look in his eye. “I just hope I’m helpful, then. My relatives never took me to church when I was younger; I don’t know much at all about...Christianity, or Catholicism, or anything. None of the ceremonies...”

Draco surprises himself with a chuckle. “That’s honestly probably for the best. The degree to which this man is trying to pervert the liturgy is enough to turn _my_ stomach, and I have only ever been interested in this in an academic sense; to anyone whom the Church holds personal significance, it would be nearly unbearable. St Francis is a beloved figure, known for his benevolence and love for all living creatures—what’s being done along his _Cammino_ is an abomination.”

Potter sweeps his quill under his chin. “Well, then. What time does our Portkey leave tomorrow?”

_Laudato si, mi Signore, per sora nostra matre Terra, la quale ne sustenta et gouerna, et produce diuersi fructi con coloriti fior et herba._

They arrive in Chiusi della Verna early in the Italian morning. Draco had insisted on reviewing their packs prior to departure, and had been pleased to note that Potter followed all his suggestions as far as what to bring. Draco has a few items in his own bag that they hopefully won’t need, and therefore Potter doesn’t need to know about them.

They make their way up the side of the mountain, the spring morning quiet and lush around them. Draco can see Potter twisting his head to get a better view of their destination; a sanctuary built into the mountain wall, with sweeping views of the valley below.

Finally, they emerge to the level of the church, and Draco’s boot heels click sharply over the ancient paved square in the center of the buildings. Potter follows along, craning his neck to look up at the crumbling belfry; they both jump a bit when the clear peals of the bells start to ring out to mark the top of the hour, echoing back throughout the valley as Draco leads them into the Basilica and down the twisting hallways until they reach the _Cappell a della Reliquie_.

Draco’s almost running by the time they get to the doorway—something feels wrong, something feels _off,_ he can almost taste the stain in the air.

His heart sinks at the crowd already gathered at the other end of the room—some tourists, some pilgrims, and a number of monks, all whispering frantically. He’d been hoping it wouldn’t come to this.

Muttering quiet spells, he pushes a path through and drags Potter up to the reliquaries of St Francis, stopping just short of the rope barrier as he stares in dismay.

The iron whip is dripping with fresh blood, staining the shining walls of its crystal reliquary a rusty red. Behind Draco, the crowd is getting restless: someone cries out, someone else faints, one of the monks moans and begins speaking in tongues. The tourists all have those infernal mobile phones out, taking pictures and videos.

“It’s too late,” Draco whispers, almost to himself, before turning heel and tugging Potter back out to the quadrant.

He takes a deep breath once they’re back in the fresh air, shivering as the tendrils of Dark magic slither down his shoulders and back inside.

“What happened in there?” Potter asks. “I’m assuming it’s not… _supposed_ to look like that?”

“No,” Draco says simply. “No, it isn’t. We’re too late. He’s started. Get your broom out, Potter—we’re going to have to fly.”

Potter hesitates, looking back into the shadows around the Basilica. “Aren’t we going to Obliviate them?”

Draco mounts his broom and leaps into the air without looking back. “Let them take comfort in their God while they still can.”

_Laudato si, mi Signore, per frate Focu, per lo quale ennallumini la nocte: ed ello è bello et iucundo et robustoso et forte._

They fly low; Draco can’t be bothered to worry about being seen by Muggles. His heart is racing as he scans the ground below them.

They make it to Assisi with nothing appearing amiss, and Draco circles them over the city, eyeing the convents and chapels that seem to be intact.

He starts to relax—hope, even—until he sees a trace of smoke, far on the horizon.

Swearing, he shoots his broom forward, Potter shouting at him to wait as he struggles to catch up.

The smell of ash and burning gets stronger and stronger, and by the time they arrive at the Rieti Valley, they’ve both cast Bubble-Head Charms to be able to breathe.

Draco pulls his broom up hard, staring at the cliffside, awash in red and orange and heat. “The Hermitage of Greccio is burning,” he says as Potter pulls up alongside him. “St Francis never intended for a second fire to be lit here.”

Potter is quiet, surveying the scene. “I did a little more research last night,” he says, and Draco swivels his head to look at him. “Don’t look so surprised. This is where the first Nativity was set, isn’t it? St Francis himself chose this location.”

Draco nods, and suddenly it all seems too big, too _much;_ how can he be expected to stop this? His breath catches in his throat, and Potter notices, reaching across to clasp his hand on Draco’s shoulder, his hand warm and firm.

They float there for a while, watching the Sanctuary burn. Finally, Draco takes a deep breath and turns south.

“He’s further than I thought. If we’re very lucky, we can get to the Vatican with a few days’ lead; that will barely give me enough time to prepare, but it will have to do.”

Potter looks grim. “Lead the way.”

Draco feels guilty, almost, for how unquestioningly supportive Potter’s being.

_Ubi sedes beatissimi Petri et Cathedra veritatis ad lucem gentium constituta est, ibi thronum posuerunt abominationis et impietatis suae; ut percusso Pastore, et gregem disperdere valeant._

They do their best to fly over the country road that cuts through the olive groves, Potter’s _Point Me_ spell keeping them in the general right direction. Their brooms are good, but the air over the mountains is thin, and it’s almost three hours before they land just outside Rome, panting and windblown.

Draco steers them to a bar, cutting through to the garden in back and through a warded portion in the gate, which transports them to Wizarding Rome, hidden in the heart of the city under the shadow of the Forum, a forty-minute walk to where they’ll be staying.

They’re both exhausted by the time they reach the resort, but Draco is gratified to see Potter’s eyes widen at the decadence of the lobby.

“ _Signore_ Malfoy,” murmurs the woman at the front desk, flashing him a brilliant smile. “A pleasure to receive your patronage again. And you’ve brought a friend with you this time. We’ve prepared your suite with the usual amenities—shall we send the rest up later?” She raises a sculpted eyebrow.

Draco glances at Potter, who’s gazing around at the decorations and shifting from foot to foot. “Perhaps,” he hedges. “I will call down when I’ve come to a decision. Your hospitality is, as always, unmatched throughout the city.” She giggles when he bows over her hand and kisses it.

A bellhop appears silently and takes their packs, disappearing before Potter can get a word out.

As the lift slowly crawls them to the top floor, Potter edges closer. “Is this a Wizarding hotel,” he whispers into Draco’s ear, glancing around the lift car. “I mean, they know you, and that man came out of _nowhere,_ and…”

Draco shivers at his proximity, but pushes the feeling away—it’s not time. “No,” he says, smirking at Potter, who flushes inexplicably and looks at his feet. “It’s Muggle. It’s just for very, very rich people. You’d be surprised at how interchangeable things look when you’ve got enough money.”

Potter mutters something, but the lift arrives, and they step out and down the hall.

They’re one of only three suites on this level, and Potter once again looks overwhelmed at the splendour. Their packs are already deposited in the main living area, but Draco bypasses them and beelines to the bar, filling two glasses with red wine. “Let’s go to the terrace,” he urges, and Potter follows him out the sliding glass doors onto the terrace.

He stops short, gasping, and Draco takes a moment to consider what this looks like through the eyes of someone who’s never been here before.

The suite offers a panoramic view of their surroundings; down into the River Tiber on one side, and the other, directly across to St Peter’s Basilica, burnished gold in the setting sun.

Potter wanders to the edge of the terrace, eyes fixed on the dome in the distance. Draco comes up behind him and hands him one of the glasses, leaning close up against his back.

“Welcome to the Eternal City, Potter,” Draco says lowly into his ear, pressing his chest against Potter’s back and revelling in the resultant shiver. “The ancient heart of the Catholic faith; the overripe, opulent seat of the papacy.” He takes a step back and joins Potter in leaning against the rail, staring at the Basilica. “You’ll find, Potter, that if you’ve enough money and know where to look here, you can buy almost anything—trafficked ingredients, the finest food and drink you could ever imagine, company for the night. Your eternal salvation, even, in the right corridors.”

Potter glances sharply at him. “ _Company for the night_. That’s what the concierge was asking you about, wasn’t it?”

Draco allows a smile to curl his mouth. “Yes, Potter. Were you interested?”

Potter frowns. “Absolutely not. Surely you aren’t…?”

Draco shrugs. “It’s too late to do anything productive tonight, and the next few days are going to be, quite literally, Hell. Now’s the time to indulge; call it stress relief if you must.” He downs the rest of the wine and wanders back inside for a refill, crossing the room to the telephone after his glass is full.

Potter follows him in, and crosses his arms and glares as Draco places a phone call in rapid Italian to the concierge. When their dinner arrives, he plates himself his share and stomps off to one of the bedrooms, slamming the door.

When it’s clear he’s not coming out again, Draco shrugs and calls down to the concierge again. The _company_ they send up is a stunningly beautiful man who says his name is Antonio and is several years too young for Draco. But his hair is dark and wavy, his skin olive-tan, and his eyes, while blue, have the exact right amount of fire and intensity, so Draco takes him to his bedroom and distracts himself for a few hours.

_Laudato si, mi Signore, per frate Uento et per aere et nubilo et sereno et onne tempo, per lo quale, a le Tue creature dài sustentamento._

The air the next day is still and hot in the way only a late Roman spring can be, and the smell of smoke and the river drifts in through the open window. Antonio is just waking when Draco steps out of the bathroom after his shower, so he avails himself of that talented tongue again, until he’s panting and satisfied and pleasingly sore. Antonio wanders out into the living area starkers, and Draco’s gratified to hear Potter’s aggrieved shout.

After a few minutes, Antonio brings back a steaming mug of black coffee, which he sets on the table next to the bed before dressing himself. “Your _bambino bello_ didn’t seem too pleased to see me,” he notes in amusement, and Draco chuckles, drawing him down for one more kiss before Antonio takes his leave.

Potter’s worked himself into a proper strop by the time Draco comes out, dressed and ready for the day, but he ignores the angry mutterings as he serves himself breakfast, and Potter finally calms down enough that they can discuss business when they’re done eating.

“You’re telling me we have to _sneak into the Vatican_?” Potter asks in disbelief.

Draco finishes his coffee. “Yes. He’s going to make his move during Sunday mass, which begins at noon—it’s when the confluence of magic will be at its strongest down in the Necropolis. Our best bet is to figure a way in while the Pope says the Angelus, as everyone’s attention will be outside—but you can be sure that _he_ will already be in there. If he’s following the path I suspect he’s following, he’ll arrive tomorrow late afternoon, which will give him tomorrow night to get into the Basilica, and all of Saturday and Sunday morning to prepare. We should figure out our best path in now, this morning, and then spend tomorrow and Saturday on our own preparations.” Draco very carefully does not look at his pack.

Potter sighs. “Fine. _Fine_. Merlin, this feels wrong.”

Draco smiles thinly. “Just you wait.”

Six hours later, they stumble back into their suite, hot, sweaty, and exhausted. Potter strips off his shirt as soon as they’re inside, and Draco eyes him up with no shame or effort at subtlety. Potter doesn’t even notice, stumbling off to the bathroom, presumably for a shower.

Draco pulls off his own shirt and swaps his trousers for a light linen pair, then splays himself over one of the sofas with a sweating glass of white wine floating next to him.

St Peter’s, as the center of of the Catholic faith, has extensive Muggle security—all of which Potter was able to slash through in an instant with a few well-placed Auror-grade charms. It was the magical protections they had more trouble with.

After examining the runic spellwork, Draco had paid a visit to an old friend, a Cardinal who insisted on shrouding his features and voice to keep himself anonymous. Draco suspects he could wave those spells away if he wanted, but he’s found over the years that this man’s ability to procure nearly anything, for a price. For now, it’s in Draco’s best interest to allow the man to maintain his status within the Holy See; there may come a day when it behooves him to reveal his magical ability to Curia, though, and they’re both aware of that.

The Cardinal had been able to provide them with amulets that would allow them to pass through the wards draping the Basilica, and grant them entrance through the Holy Door and down to the Necropolis. It would not, he’d warned, disguise or hide them in any way, and Polyjuice and Glamours were not effective on the inside.

Draco had suspected this, hence the _extras_ he’d brought along, but he’d been hoping to avoid broaching the topic with Potter.

He’s most of the way through a bottle of wine by the time Potter emerges in a vest and pair of shorts, hair still damp. Draco watches through slitted eyes as Potter opens a new bottle of wine, pours himself a glass, and drinks it down almost immediately.

“Feeling cleaner, Potter?” He gestures the bottle to tip the remainder of the wine into his glass, then Vanishes it and calls a second one over, selecting a red this time. “I did warn you.”

Potter flops onto the opposite sofa, setting his glass to hover midair and shifting the pillows about until he’s comfortable. “I know. Just. That man. Something was _wrong_ with him, wasn’t it? He felt…” Potter shivers. “It was all wrong, and the wards at St Peter’s, _those_ aren’t right either...and I can’t believe that none of _that_ is what we’re here to look into! That...that’s just the price of doing business!”

Draco rolls onto his side until they’re facing each other. “The heart of the Church is rotted out, Potter, and has been for years. This Pope is a good man, I”ve heard, but the structures that keep him in power, that preserve the authority of the glitz and grandeur...it’s poison through the veins of the Body of Christ, powered by the donations of the faithful. I’m sure you haven’t missed their more recent scandals? That barely scratches the surface of what’s going on here. Part of what I do is try to dig past the wall of silence to get at the heart of what they’re guarding here, and it’s the work of a lifetime; the fact that we were even made privy to what this man is trying to do shows just how serious it is, and even now they won’t give us full access. Why do you think we have to sneak in at all? They would _never_ let a British wizard in to view their mysteries, even though they’re the ones that asked for me in the first place.”

Potter’s watching him, green eyes bright. He’s close, now, to where Draco needs him to be on Sunday. “You really…” he starts slowly, sitting up enough to be able to sip at his wine. “Who _are_ you these days, Draco Malfoy? I didn’t even know you worked at the Ministry until Robards told me about this assignment, and he told me you’ve been down there for _ten years_? Taking trips to Rome, and digging into the Catholic church, and hiring escorts on business trips, and—” He breaks off with a rueful chuckle and lets his eyes trace along Draco’s body. “Merlin. I don’t know what to think. These past three days, I’ve barely been _able_ to think around you. Do you have any idea how much _power_ you give off these days?” His eyes are darkening, and Draco sits up, alarmed. “It’s...intoxicating.”

“Potter,” Draco says carefully, setting his glass aside. “Perhaps you should retire for the night. It was a long day, and the sun was hot, and the air here is—well. I think something at the Cardinal’s may have gotten to you.” Potter’s reacting much too strongly, much too soon—blast that petty little Cardinal, Draco _knows_ he’s to blame for this, something in his thurible no doubt.

Potter shakes his head a bit, and his eyes clear. He flushes. “Oh...you’re right. Godric, I don’t know what just came over me, I feel dizzy.” He stands and stumbles to his bedroom without another word.

Draco breathes for a moment, then gets up and heads out onto the terrace, looking out towards the Basilica. Is he imagining things, or is the sunset _dimmed_ tonight, the shadows around the dome reaching out further than they had last night?

Is the man already here?

_Laudato si mi Signore, per sora nostra Morte corporale, da la quale nullu homo uiuente pò skappare_

Potter seems recovered the next day, so Draco allows him to pace and mutter practice spells under his breath out on the terrace while he lays out his supplies.

A crucifix, a Neverending Flask of holy water linked to a branch of the Jordan, a rosary made of bone. Sometimes, the classics really are what work best.

Draco closes his eyes and slips easily into a trance, where he stays through lunch until mid-afternoon; when he opens his eyes again, Harry’s taking a nap on the sofa, and there’s a plate with sandwiches on the coffee table. Draco is touched, and grateful because he’s ravenous.

As Draco’s finishing, Potter wakes up, and watches with rapt attention as Draco dons a pair of thin white gloves and anoints the crucifix, the rosary, and his wand with the holy water, muttering the Lord’s Prayer in its entirety over each item.

Finally, Draco stands and stretches, wincing as what feels like every single joint in his body pops. Potter stifles a chuckle and offers him a cheeky massage, which Draco might have considered accepting if it weren’t for the shadow he can still see lurking in Potter’s eyes. Not yet.

He distracts them both by pulling out two wrapped packages from his bag, tossing one to Potter. “I had feared that we’d need disguises for this—my hope was we wouldn’t need to use these, but as we do, I’m glad I thought to bring them. We’ll have to wear these tomorrow so we don’t get stopped once we make it past the wards.”

Potter tosses the wrapping aside and holds up its contents. “Oh, Malfoy,” he says, despair colouring his voice. “You have _got_ to be kidding me. If we weren’t going to hell _before_...”

Draco snickers at that. “You were already going to hell, Potter. Look, just go try it on so we can make sure it fits.”

Groaning, Potter slouches to the bedroom, emerging a few minutes later and tugging self-consciously at his sleeves. “This is terrible,” he complains. “I look like a total prat. This isn’t going to fool anyone.”

Draco’s mouth goes dry and he’s suddenly on his feet. Potter in the unrelieved black of a traditional priest’s cassock, with its line of tiny buttons, nipped-in waist, and a pellegrina trimmed in amaranth red, Potter looks—

He looks like temptation, like a broken sacrament. _Forgive me, Father, for I am about to sin_.

Getting a hold of himself, Draco steps closer and reaches up to adjust Potter’s high priest’s collar, pressing down on the cross necklace until it’s flat against his broad chest. Potter’s breathing faster than normal, and Draco can feel the thrum of his heart racing through the layers of cloth and bone and blood.

He clears his throat. “It fits,” he says, finally meeting Potter’s eyes. “It suits you.” He steps back and sinks back onto the sofa.

Potter watches him steadily for a moment, then takes his own seat. “I don’t get to see you in yours?” he asks, clearly going for playful and missing by a mile.

“Tomorrow,” Draco says, smiling. “A girl needs a little mystery, after all.”

They stare at each other for a while, until Potter breaks Draco’s gaze. “Er,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. “Should we order dinner? An early night tonight, I think?”

Draco nods, too fast, grateful for the break in tension. “I’ll call down. You go change—and _don’t_ wrinkle that.”

“Yes, yes,” Potter grumbles, fleeing to the bedroom.

Dinner is awkward and silent. In bed later, Draco pulls himself off, almost violent in his touch, then stares at the ceiling until his eyes burn and he finally slips into uneasy sleep.

The next day, they move around each other cautiously, and finally at ten change into their cassocks. Draco then Glamours them so they appear to be wearing street clothes, and they exit the hotel and walk to St Peter’s Square, chattering with false excitement about finally getting to witness a papal mass.

Once they reach the square, they use the teeming mass of tourists and the faithful to slip off to the side. Potter _Finite_ s the Glamours and they slip into St Peter’s.

 _One done,_ Draco thinks with a sigh of relief as the amulets do what they promised and get them through the wards. The scraping inspection is unpleasant, but they’re allowed entry, and after a quick look around, they make for the atrium.

As Draco predicted, the halls are essentially empty as everyone rushes around to prepare for Mass, and soon they’re standing in front of the massive Holy Door. Even Draco feels a shiver of awe looking over the panels.

A portion of the door shimmers as they stand there, and Draco tugs Harry’s sleeve. “Let’s go,” he murmurs, and they step through.

Draco is immediately hit with a creeping, oily smear of Dark magic over his own, sinking into his pores, whispering to him. A glance sideways confirms Potter is similarly affected. He’s here, then.

Something makes Draco turn around before they make for the tombs, and his heart drops—the shining gold cross on the back of the Holy Door is upside down. The hair on the back of his neck stands up.

The air gets thicker and closer and _hotter_ as they descend, and finally the stairs open up—they’re in the Necropolis, and there he is. Potter draws his wand.

Draco takes in the scene swiftly—black candles, a pentagram in blood painted on the floor, at the center of which is a whirl of glowing blue light and black smoke. He’s initiated the ritual, then.

“I was wondering when someone would come,” the man snarls, stepping forward and beginning to raise his wand. “You’re too la—”

“ _Avada Kedavra,_ ” Draco says casually, and a stream of green light slams into the man, and he falls over dead, mid-word.

“What the fuck!” Potter cries, swinging his wand to point at Draco. “You just—you _killed_ him! Why?” His voice is shaking.

Draco swiftly steps towards the pentagram, pacing around it and examining the smoke. “It had to be done, Potter. Now, listen to me. There’s something else I didn’t tell you. I suppose part of me was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, and you’d never need to know. The reason I requested that _you_ come with me—”

He’s interrupted by a blast of wind, which knocks one of the candles out of place _just enough,_ and he lunges to kick it back into place, but it’s too late—the blue light slams out of the pentagram and heads straight for Potter, who can only stare, open-mouthed, as it hits him in the chest and lifts him into the air, where he hovers a moment before dropping onto the stone floor with a sickening crack.

“Oh shit,” Draco mutters, hurrying over and crouching next to Potter, casting rapid healing spells at his head to bring down the swelling and heal the cut. “Shit, shit, _fuck,_ this isn’t how this was supposed to go, wake _up_ Potter…”

Potter’s eyes open, and Draco springs back. That’s not _Harry_ looking at him, not with green eyes that have Hellfire burning behind them, not Harry with that evil smirk.

Draco scrambles back and pulls out his crucifix and rosary, looping both of them around his neck. He gets to his feet and holds out his wand in one hand and the flask of holy water in the other. “Who are you?”

Potter chuckles, and the sound echoes with centuries of malice. “Hello, Draco Malfoy. What have you brought me today? He’s absolutely _delicious_ —all that righteous purity, with a gorgeous edge of...is that lust? Disillusionment? What _have_ you been doing to this boy, you naughty thing?”

“Who. Are. You,” Draco says steadily, holding his ground even as Potter stands and stalks towards him.

“You don’t need my name, Draco Malfoy,” Potter says, reaching out, and Draco does back up then, an instinctive reaction of fear. “You _know_ who I am. You’ve been looking for me for years. And I’ve been watching you, too, you know. Could you feel me? Could you feel my eyes on you in the dark? _Seek first the Kingdom,_ Draco Malfoy, and eventually the Kingdom will come to you.” Potter looks around, taking in his surroundings. “You know, I honestly expected these Catholics to die out. I’ll be _fascinated_ to meet this Pope of theirs.”

Draco’s trembling, now, and he’s backed himself up against the wall. As Potter comes closer again, he draws a line of holy water out of the flask with a spell, snapping it forward like a whip.

Potter chuckles. “Fancy trick,” he says, reaching up and grasping the line of water. His hand smokes faintly. “Not enough, though.” He pulls, and Draco’s wand goes flying, skittering into the darkness of the tombs, and in the second Draco takes to stare after it, Potter knocks the flask out of his other hand.

Potter crowds him up against the wall, body a long line against Draco’s. He’s hot, hotter than any human could be, and his eyes are burning, and his skin is glowing. He’s beautiful, and frightening, and Draco is terrified.

“He wants you very much, you know,” Potter whispers, licking along Draco’s jaw. Draco’s head thunks back against the stone wall. “It’s all he’s been thinking about. Did you bring back a little concubine right in front of him, Draco Malfoy? He didn’t like that at _all_. You should see the things he did to himself in the dark that night.” Potter’s hands wander up Draco’s torso, groping him through his cassock. “And these costumes? He’s been burning for you all day. Not very nice of you, to leave him so _vulnerable_ —after all, that’s how I got in. I imagine you were expecting this inner flame of righteousness to be able to contain me while you slipped a knife into my side? That might have worked a few days ago, but not any more.” Potter’s smile is manic. “While you’ve got us in these outfits, we may as well play, Draco Malfoy. I’ll give you both what you want before I burn your hearts out.”

“ _P-Princeps gloriosissime c-caelestis m-m-militiae,_ ” Draco starts, even as Potter— _not_ Potter—forces him to his knees “ _sancte Michael Archangele, d-defende nos in proelio et colluctat_ ione, Potter, Harry, _Harry,_ come on, I know you’re in there,” Potter is unbuttoning his cassock, “ _quae nobis adversus principes et p-potestates, adversus mundi rectores tenebrarum harum, contra spiritualia nequitiae, in caelestibus,_ Harry, I know you can hear me, I _know_ you can, you need to fight him, you need to push him back, just for long enough for me to get my wand,” Potter is pulling his cock out of his pants, “ _Veni in auxilium hominum_ —”

“Draco?” and that’s Potter’s voice, _Harry’s_ voice, not the horrible parody of the demon, and Draco looks up, and Potter’s still cupping his face, but his eyes are back to their usual intense green, and his face its normal handsome ordinariness, and he looks confused. “Draco, what are you doing?”

Draco lunges forward and snatches Harry’s wand from his pocket. “ _Accio_ Draco Malfoy’s wand!” he shouts, catching it as it flies across the room into his hand. He transfers them both to his right hand and stands, pointing the wands at Potter, whose eyes are slowly starting to burn again as the demon fights his way to the front. “ _Adesto itaque, Dux invictissime, populo Dei contra irrumpentes spirituales nequitias, et fac victoriam!_ Fuck you, I won’t let you have him! _Offer nostras preces in conspectu Altissimi, ut cito anticipent nos misericordiae Domini, et apprehendas draconem, serpentem antiquum, qui est diabolus et satanas, ac ligatum mittas in abyssum, ut non seducat amplius gentes. Amen!_ ”

Potter opens his mouth and _screams;_ it’s horrible, and Draco feels blood running down the sides of his face from where his eardrums have burst, but he holds the wands steady, forcing the memory of Potter’s eyes, _Harry’s_ eyes, to the front of his mind to give him strength. The blue light begins to glow around Potter’s edges, and Draco has to squint against the glare, but he holds firm, repeating _In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_ over and over, until the screaming and light fills the room completely, then disappears, and Draco’s vision goes dark.

He wakes up a while later and immediately bolts up, crawling to Harry’s side. “Fuck, fuck, Harry, please tell me you’re okay,” he says frantically, patting all over Harry’s body. “Jesus, Harry, I need you to _wake up_ now, come on—”

Harry groans and turns towards him, eyes fluttering open, those passionate green eyes, _his_ eyes, no glowing coals. Draco breathes a sigh of relief. “Malfoy? Merlin, what _happened_? Did that…”

Harry struggles to a sitting position, then freezes, snapping his gaze to Draco, and now his eyes are _furious_. “You _bastard_ ,” he breathes. “You used me as _bait_. You walked me into a trap; you knew that _thing_ would go for me. I can’t believe—” he trails off, tilting his head as more memories clearly return. “You...how did you _do_ that? How did you get rid of him?”

Draco hesitates, bowing his head. “It was you, Harry. You came back to yourself just long enough to let me get my wand, and then I completed the incantation. If you hadn’t—if you couldn’t—” his breath hitches. “Harry, you _must_ know, I _never_ intended this to happen. You were supposed to be a distraction, nothing more, something it would be fascinated with, something it would want to talk to and taunt and tempt, while I snuck around behind it and sent it back. It was _never_ supposed to get out. I don’t even know how to express how sorry I am.”

They’re quiet for a minute, then Harry’s hand tilts Draco’s head up, and his eyes are burning again, but with something different, something Draco had seen in his eyes yesterday at the hotel. They’re both shaking, from fear and the adrenaline still coursing through their blood, and Draco thinks he might fall apart if Harry doesn’t _do something_. “I know you’re sorry,” Harry says hoarsely, running his hand down Draco’s neck. “I know. And...I think,” He stops, swallows. “I think you should take us back to the hotel, and make it up to me. I can’t...he was right about one thing, Draco. Looking at you in this outfit...I’m burning up inside, over you. I have been since I saw you at the Ministry, since I tasted your magic in the air. I need it. I need _you_.”

That’s all the permission he needs. Draco scrambles to his feet and hauls Harry up with him. Now it’s Harry who’s pressed up against the stone wall while Draco runs his hands all over his body, and they’re kissing, and Draco thinks he might be burning up, too.

“Forgive me,” he whispers in Harry’s ear, before sinking to his knees, this time of his own accord, and pulling Harry’s cock out, long and thick and red. He fits his mouth around it and immediately sinks to the base, nose pressing into Harry’s pubic hair as he chokes and gags.

Above him, Harry moans, winding his fingers through Draco’s hair and thrusting forward sharply. “Oh, Jesus,” he slurs. “I absolve thee,” he yanks Draco’s head further down, “I absolve thee,” Draco’s breathing as best he can through his nose and tears are streaming down his face, “ _I absolve thee,_ ” and Harry comes with a howl down Draco’s throat, and Draco swallows it greedily, accepting his penance.

While Harry’s still recovering, Draco pulls his own cock out and strokes himself, over and over, faster and faster, until he too is crying out and coming onto the floor of the tombs of the Vatican, in a stolen Bishop’s garb.

Harry slides to the floor and they lean against each other until they’ve caught their breath. “Merlin,” Harry finally says, looking around them bemusedly. “You certainly haven’t lost your flair for the dramatic. Could we have possibly picked a _more_ inappropriate location for this?”

Startled, Draco laughs. “Oh, don’t tempt me, Potter—I could think of a few places.”

Harry turns to him and winks, then stands and brushes his robes off. “I think I’ll tempt you all I like, actually. Come on now, Serpent; take me back to your garden.”

Draco stands too, and pulls Harry into a kiss, this time a deep, gentle one, and they begin to pick their way out of the tombs.

“What about that man’s body? Who _was_ he, anyway?”

“The Church will deal with the whole scene. They’ll swallow it whole, like they do every other dirty little secret. As for who he was—I don’t know. We never were given his name. Did it really matter, in the end?”

_Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace._

**Author's Note:**

> the tumblr post for this fic is [here](https://bonesliketambourines.tumblr.com/post/631286800222158848/kinktober-day-6-in-his-name).


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